"Me make you velly nice apple tart. Miss Betty." The Chinese cook
flourished his rolling pin with one hand and swung his apron viciously
with the other as he held open the screen door and swept out some
Lee Chang, cook for the bunk house in the oil fields, could do several
things at one time, as he had frequently proved.
The girl, who was watching a wiry little bay horse contentedly crop grass
that grew in straggling whisps about the fence posts, looked up and
showed an even row of white teeth as she smiled.
"I don't think we're going to stay for dinner to-day," she said half
regretfully. "I know your apple tarts, Lee Chang--they are delicious."
The fat Chinaman closed the screen door and went on with his pastry
making. From time to time, as he passed from the table to the oven, he
glanced out. Betty Gordon still stood watching the horse.
"That Bob no come?" inquired Lee Chang, poking his head out of the door
again. Fast developing into a good American, his natural trait of
curiosity gave him the advantage of acquiring information blandly and
Betty shaded her eyes with her hand. The Oklahoma sun was pitiless. Far
up the road that ran straight away from the bunk house a faint cloud of
dust was rising.